The Broken (Part 1)

By Samuel Sebbowa Bunnya, Uganda

The voices were nothing more than whispers to her. She could not understand a thing they said. She could hear them but they seemed so far away from her, that she wondered if she was finally free from the prison of her horrors for a fleeting moment. All the memories had broken through and had consumed her. There was no going back for her. She had no chance of rebuilding the strong walls. They were gone with the wind and nothing more than burnt ashes of her past. The tables had finally been turned and the horrors consumed her when the whispers disappeared.

She was not sure if it was days or months; but she knew it had been that way for not so long. She was in a state of lifelessness; alone with the horrors until she heard them. Hearing whispers at some point; distracting her from the horrors of six men that poured out of her soul. I am nothing but weak filth that deserves nothing. It was the only thing she told herself for so long she started to believe it. Her body was not her own; it had stopped being her own all those years ago when three brothers had betrayed the bonds of hospitality.

The whispers disappeared leaving her with the great fear that she had held back for so long. Ryta wished she could reach out to them and bring them back. She did not want to be alone with them; the devils from the past and those from the recent past. They circled her everyday as she lay there. Before long she felt herself drowning back in the lifeless past. She tried to scream but nothing could come out. Your body is not your own. Their sneers hounded her until she was lost to the world once more; crumbling into the pit of despair as they taunted her.

She stirred as she heard the whispers again. The dream of the past had been clear and vivid. The demons had been her companions until the whispers came once more. They had grown louder. She could make out a few of the words that were being exchanged but she did not understand them. She could hear the strange accents. I am with the gods after all. It was the only explanation to the strange accents that surrounded her. The whispers were stranger than before. They were closer to her and a part of her recognized them.

Mother. She truly was dead. If she could hear the gentle accent of her mother, it meant she was dead. Her father had to be near. Her family had to be close. They had to be. They were the source of the whispers that dulled the hounding horrors and devils. Something inside of her soul dared to look at the demons. The taunting dark things seemed to be afraid of whatever it was. Ryta grasped for the whispers. She willed her weak-self to the whispers, but her will was non-existent. It was dead along with her; consumed by the horrors of the devils that broke her twice.

Just as strong as they had come, the whispers went away. That was when the demons came at her. She cowered away; alone and powerless once more. She let them hound her. She was alone and had no control as the six faces of the demons taunted her in the darkness. Soon enough she drifted into the pit she always awoke from; the demons hounding her into it until she let them have their way.

To be continued…